Wednesday, December 23, 2015

It's wonderful to welcome Christopher Pike here to share his inspiration for writing his new paranormal mystery release, Strange Girl. Be sure to check out his book and also the giveaway contest at the end of this post.

The Inspiration for Strange Girl

by Christopher Pike

Since Strange Girl was published a
month ago, the most frequent question I get asked is what inspired the
book. I can give you my usual answer. I can say I wrote it because
I love telling stories, and when I got the idea for Strange Girl I was bursting
with energy to get it all down on paper -- even though we all write on
computers these days. None of that would be a lie. That is one
reason why I wrote Strange Girl.

The other reason is more
complicated. When I sold Slumber Party in 1985, the YA market was much
simpler. There wasn’t many high powered authors writing in the genre and
the stories themselves were often basic. Slumber Party itself was a
straight forward thriller. Not a great book but a fun fast read.

But nowadays YA is extremely
competitive, and one night when I was talking with my girlfriend, Abir, about
what book I should write next, we kept going around in circles for hours.
It was not as if we had a lack of ideas. On the contrary, we had over a
dozen mind blowing concepts for YA novels in our heads. But Abir made an
odd suggestion as the night wore on. She said, “Why don’t you write a
story where a boy meets a strange girl and he -- and you -- have no idea who
she is?”

The idea disturbed me. For
one thing, I like to know where I’m going when I write a story. I don’t
like writing pages that I have to later throw out. I hate wasting hard
work. At the very least I like to have a general idea of how the book is
going to end. But what Abir was suggesting was I know exactly as much as
my point of view character -- which was nothing. In Strange Girl, a guy
named Fred meets a girl named Aja and he has no idea who she is or why she is
so different than any other girls he’s met.

That was it, that was the basic idea.
In a sense the whole book was going to be an experiment. Each day I sat
to write, I was just going to tell what Fred did with Aja that day. In
fact, I was going to go out of my way not to worry about what they were going
to do tomorrow. Since I’ve written over fifty books, I figured I had
nothing to lose, except maybe a few months of my life.

But a funny thing happened.
The more I just went with the flow, or trusted in the universe to inspire me,
or -- whatever you want to call the process -- the more interesting the book
got. It didn’t take long before I was as obsessed with Aja as Fred
was. People will think I’m exaggerating, but I felt like I was in love
with her. And it wasn’t until the end of the story that I finally understood
who Aja was and why she had entered Fred’s life.

Writing Strange Girl was perhaps
the strangest experience of my life. I still love Aja, I still love the
book, and I miss the characters terribly. I wish I could write a sequel
but I don’t see how.

That’s how Strange Girl came to be.

Aja was born out of nothingness.

Strange
Girl

Christopher
Pike

Publisher: Simon Pulse

Release Date: November 17, 2015

Genre: Paranormal Mystery

ISBN-10: 1481450581

ISBN-13: 978-1481450584

Paperback: 432 pages

From #1 New York Times bestselling author
Christopher Pike comes a brand-new fascinating and seductive new novel about a
girl with a mysterious ability—but one that carries an unimaginable cost.

Then strange things begin to happen
around Aja. A riot breaks out that Aja is able to stop by merely speaking a few
words. A friend of Fred’s suffers a serious head injury and has a miraculous
recovery.

Yet Aja swears she has done
nothing.

Unfortunately, Fred is not the only
one who notices Aja’s unique gifts. As more and more people begin to question
who Aja is and what she can do, she’s soon in grave danger. Because none of
them truly understands the source of Aja’s precious abilities—or their
devastating cost.

Love Aja or hate her—you will never
forget her.

In
Strange Girl, #1 bestselling author Christopher Pike has created the rarest of
novels—a love story that swings between a heart-pounding mystery and a stirring
mystical journey.

I STILL GET asked
about Aja, where she came from, what it was like to be her friend, to actually
date her, whether the stories about her were true, and who—or what—I really
thought she was.

The last question
makes me smile, probably because I understand it’s hard to talk about Aja
without sounding like a nut. That’s what I try telling people who want to know
about her. She was a mystery, a genuine enigma, in a world that has more trouble
each day believing in such things. And now that she’s gone, I think she’ll
forever remain a mystery.

At least to those
who loved her.

And to those who
feared her.

My name’s Fred
Allen, and I was a seventeen-year-old senior in high school when I met Aja. I
was heading home on a hot Friday afternoon after a boring two weeks of classes
when I spotted her sitting in the park across the street from campus. I’d like
to say I saw something special about her from the start but I’d be lying,
although later I wondered if she might have been kind of strange.

There was a
perfectly fine bench five feet off to her left but instead of sitting on it
like a normal person she was kneeling in the grass and plucking at a few
scrawny daisies, while occasionally looking up at Elder High’s sweaty student
body as they poured into the side streets or else cut across the park toward
their homes.

The sweat was
because of the humidity. From June until October, it hovered around 90 percent.
But the stickiness was usually vanquished by a brief autumn that blew by in a
month or less, and was replaced by bitter winter winds that were so cold they’d
bite your ass off—even if you had the bad taste to wear long underwear to
school, which only the principal and the teachers did.

I suppose it could
have been worse. Elder could have been located in North Dakota instead of South
Dakota. Our northern neighbors were something of a mystery to most of us. I
mean, it’s not like anyone went to vacation up there. All we really knew about
them was that they were always lobbying to change their name to just plain
“Dakota.” For some reason they thought that would make their state sound more
inviting. Go figure.

Anyway, the thing
that struck me about Aja at the start, besides her love of grass and daisies,
was that she stared at many of the students who walked by. She didn’t smile at
them, didn’t say hi or bat her long lashes or anything seductive like that. She
just looked straight at them, which probably made most of them feel
uncomfortable. I noticed the majority looked away as they strode by.

I mentioned her
long lashes, and yeah, I did happen to notice she was pretty. Not beautiful in
the usual social-media way, but an easy eight or nine on Fred Allen’s
relatively generous scale of one to ten. Even at a distance of a hundred yards
I could see her hair was dark brown, shiny, and that her skin was the same
color as my favorite ice cream—Häagen-Dazs Coffee.

Yet I didn’t
equate her with ice cream because I wanted to take a bite out of her or anything
gross like that. It’s not like I felt some mad rush of seventeen-year-old
hormones and experienced first love for the twentieth time. I just sort of, you
know, noticed that she looked nice, very nice, and that her long lashes framed
a pair of large, dark eyes that were, sadly, not looking anywhere in my
direction.

That was it; that
was my first impression of Aja. Oh, there was one other thing. I did happen to
notice that she had on a simple white dress that didn’t quite reach to her
knees. The thing that struck me about the dress was—not that it was filthy—it
looked like it could have used a wash.

Introduction to
Aja complete. I went home and didn’t give her more than a few hours of thought
all weekend. And no, honestly, my fantasies were not a hundred percent sexual.
I mainly wondered why a girl her age, if she was new to town, wasn’t going to
school. It was just a thought. Elder High, my school, was the only one in town
for someone our age.

Monday morning I
heard about Aja from my best friend, Janet Shell, five minutes before our first
period, calculus, started. I was taking calculus because it was an AP class and
my parents were obsessed that I ace as many hard classes as possible so I’d go
to college and not grow up to be as miserable as they were.

That was sort of a
joke in our household but, unfortunately, it was mostly true. My dad sold new
and used cars at a Toyota dealership in a neighboring town of ours, Balen,
which actually had a multiplex where the speaker system didn’t sound like a
jukebox and there was a generous selection of eight movies. Unlike Elder’s sole
theater, where you had to wear 3-D glasses just to keep from squinting at the
sagging screen.

My mom also worked
in Balen as an executive secretary for a boss that couldn’t have spelled her
job title. My parents were both smart, and they loved each other, I think, but
when I asked why they hadn’t moved away from Elder—like, say, before I was
born—they just told me to pass the salt. What I mean is, the way they fell
silent whenever I asked about their past made me feel like I was somehow
rubbing salt in old wounds. I joke about it now—a bad habit, I still joke about
most things—but it did worry me that they weren’t happy.

Janet Shell, on
the other hand, was super happy, or else she knew how to act the part, which
according to her was all that mattered. She was taking calculus because she was
smart and loved math. But she was cool, too. For example, although a straight-A
student, she intended to get a C in calculus simply because she didn’t want to
get elected our class valedictorian.

Besides hating the
spotlight, Janet knew if she was required to give a speech to us graduating
seniors, there was no way she’d be able to resist telling us that virtually our
whole class would still be living in Elder when our ten- and twenty-year high
school reunions rolled around—her way of saying that the majority of us were
destined to be losers.

“Have you seen the
new girl yet?” Janet asked before Mr. Simon showed up his usual five minutes
late. We’d had him as our math teacher three years running. The guy came into
class reeking of pot almost every morning until Halloween rolled around, when
he’d switch over to some kind of mysterious blue pill—Janet swore it was the
stimulant Adderall—and lecture us on three chapters a week instead of his
normal three pages.

Naturally, Janet’s
question about the “new girl” piqued my interest. I’d been looking for her
since I’d arrived at school. Still, I acted cool.

“Nope,” I said,
adding a shrug.

“Bullshit. You
must have seen her. You just blushed.”

“I don’t know what
you’re talking about.”

Janet looked me
over. “Her name’s Aja—A-J-A. It’s pronounced like Asia but with more of a J
sound. She’s a total fox, super exotic-looking. She just moved here from a
remote village in Brazil. Everyone’s talking about her but I hear she’s not
talking much. The word is—she’s not stuck-up, just quiet.” Janet paused. “What
do you think? Want to ask her out?”

“How about I meet
her first, then decide?” I said.

“Okay. But I think
with this one you’re going to have to act fast. She’s no Nicole. You can’t wait
two years to get up your nerve. She’ll go quick.”

I felt a stab of
pain that Janet had so carelessly brought up Nicole but hid it. “What makes you
so sure? She might be picky.”

Janet wavered.
“True. But a ton of guys are going to hit on her. She’s a looker and she’s got
money and she knows how to dress.”

Recalling the
plain, dusty dress Aja had been wearing in the park, that surprised me.
“Really?”

Janet caught the
note in my voice. “You have seen her, you bastard. Why do you lie to me when
you’re such a shitty liar? Tell me the truth, have you talked to her?”

I sighed. “I saw a
new girl last Friday while walking home from school. She was sitting in the
park, plucking flowers. I’m not sure she’s the same person you’re talking
about.”

“Right. Like this
town has a surplus of beautiful girls.”

“Hold on a sec.
You’re the one who says us guys are always judging a book by its cover. Well,
what are you doing? So she’s pretty. So she’s got expensive clothes. She could
still be a jerk.”

“Ten minutes ago.
We only exchanged a few words but I sensed something unique about her.” Janet
paused. “You know the last time I said that, don’t you?”

“Ages ago. When
you met me.”

“That’s right.
That’s why you need to ask her out.”

“I’ll think about
it.”

Mr. Simon stumbled
in right then, smelling like Colombian Gold, and told us to open our textbooks
to chapter three. It was Janet who had to remind him that we hadn’t covered
chapter two yet.

I spent most of
the class digesting what Janet had said. I’d learned long ago to take her
insights seriously. Janet was not merely smart; she had an uncanny intuition
when it came to people. She said 99.99 percent of the population were sheep. If
she liked Aja, it meant she was more than a pretty face.

I saw Aja in third
period, before lunch, in American History.

We were in the
same class. Just my luck.

Maybe, I thought,
maybe not. My usual seat was in the corner, all the way in the back. Aja came
in two minutes after me and sat down in the first row, but the last seat, by
the windows. Basically, even though we occupied the same room, she was pretty
far away. I couldn’t help but think she’d somehow spotted me, remembered me
staring at her the previous Friday afternoon, and had gone out of her way to
keep her distance.

Of course, given
the fact that she hadn’t even glanced in my direction when she’d entered the
classroom, I was probably just being paranoid.

She looked good,
better than good. There were plenty of heads between me and her and all I could
see was Aja’s. Her dark hair appeared a little shorter than last Friday, like
she’d gotten a trim over the weekend. But the shine was still there. And her
long eyelashes, seen in profile, were amazing.

Our teacher, Mrs.
Nancy Billard, came into the room. A stuffy, old bird if you got on her wrong
side, but one of the most caring people you could meet if she happened to like
you. She taught AP English on top of history and I’d had her for English the
previous year and had won her over with a slew of wild-and-crazy short stories
I’d written. She liked students who thought outside the box.

However, those who
landed on her wrong side were either flunked or ignored or both. In her AP
classes she enforced a strict work ethic. She said anyone who wanted to go to
college had to earn it.

“I see we have a
new student today,” she said, glancing in Aja’s direction. “I was told you’d be
joining us. What’s your name?”

“Aja,” she replied
in a soft voice.

“Is that your
first or last name?”

“It’s what people
call me.”

Billard cleared
her throat, a bad sign. “Then that’s what I’ll call you. But please humor the
rest of the class and tell us your full name.”

“Aja Smith.”

“Took a moment to
remember your family name?”

Aja stared at her
and said nothing.

Billard continued.
“Well, we’re all very happy you could join us two weeks late. Another week and
you’d have wandered in during the Civil War. Ted, fetch a textbook for Aja from
the closet and let’s all open to page forty-nine, chapter three. Time we got to
the thirteen colonies and their feud with King George the Third.” Billard
paused and glanced at Aja again. “Do you have a problem, girl?”

“No.”

“You’re looking at
me kind of funny. I thought maybe you did.” Aja didn’t reply, just continued to
stare at her, which didn’t sit well with Billard. “You do know something about
American history, don’t you?”

“No,” Aja replied.

Billard blinked,
unsure whether Aja was sassing her or not. “Then it’s your responsibility to
catch up. This is an AP class—there are no shortcuts here. Read the first
forty-eight pages of your textbook tonight and I’ll quiz you on them tomorrow.”

Aja nodded without
speaking as she accepted the textbook from Ted Weldon, a football jock with a
double-digit IQ and a gross habit of farting whenever he yawned. Some might
have wondered what he was doing in an AP class. But those who bothered to
contemplate the matter probably didn’t know that Ted’s father was best buddies
with Elder High’s Principal Levitt and that—despite what Billard had just
said—there were always shortcuts available to those students whose parents knew
the right people.

Handing Aja her
textbook, Ted didn’t simply look at her; he gloated over her face and body
before returning to his chair, eliciting a mild chuckle from the rest of the
class.

“Thanks,” Aja
said. Her voice was not merely soft, it was smooth, cool, confident. She
obviously didn’t have to speak up to make a point. Plus her answers to
Billard’s questions had been at best evasive, which I naturally had to admire.

Yet I could tell
already that Billard didn’t like her and that Aja was probably going to have a
hard time in her class. That bothered me, a little, even though she was a total
stranger.

Total stranger.
Damn. Got to change that fast.

I remembered
Janet’s warning that Aja would not last when it came to Elder High’s horny
guys, and it got my adrenaline pumping. When class was over I caught up with
her outside in the hallway and walked by her side before she stopped at her
locker. Oh no, I thought. I wasn’t ready for this. Suddenly a life-changing
choice was upon me. I could either keep walking and live the rest of my days in
regret or I could stop and pretend to have a locker next to her.

I did the latter,
spinning the dial on the lock like it was preset to my favorite radio station.
Only the volume never came on and the locker never opened because I had no idea
what the combination was. Fortunately, Aja seemed to be having trouble with her
own locker and I was able to swoop in and rescue her.

“It’s not
opening?” I asked, way too casually and with a stupid grin on my face.

Aja pulled a slip
of paper from her pants pocket and stuck it out for me to take. “I was told
this is the combination,” she said.

Aja didn’t have on
ordinary pants; she wore designer jeans that had clearly been purchased far
from Elder’s finest clothing stores. Up top she had on an ultrathin maroon
sweater; and if it was responsible for her subtle curves, then it was worth its
weight in gold. Her silky blouse had red in it as well—a rusty color that made
me think of desert sand dunes and romantic sunset kisses and . . .

I was losing it, I
suddenly realized. Aja’s big brown eyes were still waiting for me to take her
slip of paper. I shook my head and took a breath. Breathing was good, I
reminded myself.

“This looks like
it might work,” I said. Duh! The piece of paper said: “LOCKER NUMBER” on top. A
sequence of three numbers followed: 12–18–24. All the locks in school—all the
combinations I’d ever seen, for that matter—worked on the right-left-right
sequence. When I dialed in Aja’s three digits, the locker immediately opened.
Amazing. I noticed her eyes following me closely and added, “You see how it
works?”

“Yes,” she
replied, and it was only then I realized she’d never had a locker before. She
deposited her book inside and closed it. Out of habit, I reached up and spun
the dial.

“You can’t be too
careful,” I said.

“Pardon?”

“Your lock. You
need to spin it to clear the combination.” She didn’t respond, just stared at
me. Again, I felt the need to add something. “So no one will break into your
locker.”

“Kids do that
here?” she asked.

“Some kids do,
yeah.” Again, she seemed to wait for me to continue so I added, “Actually, the
students here don’t like being called kids.”

“What should I
call them?”

“Girls or guys or
people. Kids—it sounds kind of young, you know.”

“I didn’t know
that but thanks for telling me.”

“No problem. By
the way, my name’s Fred Allen. I’m in your history class. I sit in the back.”

“I saw you.”

“You did?” God,
the way I asked the question, the sheer amount of wonder in my tone, it was
like she’d just told me she’d found a heart donor that could save my life. I
reminded myself again to keep breathing and try to act normal. Fortunately, Aja
didn’t appear to notice my clumsiness.

“Yes,” she said
simply, adding, “I’m Aja.”

“I know. I mean, I
heard what you told Mrs. Billard.” Aja nodded and again acted as if she wanted
me to keep talking. I added, “She can be a great teacher if she thinks you’re
trying. But slack off and she’ll classify you as a loser. Then you’ll be in
trouble. She was serious when she told you that she’s going to quiz you on the
first two chapters of the textbook. If I was you I’d study tonight. I’d read
chapter three as well. I wouldn’t be surprised if she quizzed you on the whole
lot.”

“I will.” She
looked past me as the student body converged toward Elder High’s courtyard. We
had an indoor cafeteria but no one ventured inside before the first snow came.
The school lunch staff didn’t mind. They kept a half-dozen windows open where
you could order a decent hamburger, hot dog, or sandwich if you had the money.
Since I was on a strict budget, I usually brought a brown bag from home and
just picked up a Coke from one of the vending machines. In fact, my lunch was
waiting for me back at my real locker, although I felt in no hurry to get to
it.

“The kids . . .
the girls and guys have lunch now?” Aja asked.

“Yeah. It’s always
after third period. Are you hungry?”

“This bod . . .”
She suddenly stopped. “Yes.”

“Bring anything
from home?” I knew she hadn’t because I’d seen the interior of her locker and
it had been empty. She shook her head and for the hundredth time waited for me
to go on. I added, “Then you should probably pick up something at the windows.”

“Are you going to
these . . . windows?”

“Uh-huh. I can
show you where they are if you want. If you don’t have other plans, I mean.”

She flashed a
smile. “I don’t have any plans, Fred.”

I liked how she
said my name and loved her smile; nevertheless, I groaned inside thinking how
hard Janet would be laughing if she could see me now. Honestly, my nervousness
made no sense. Sure, Aja was pretty, and, sure, I liked her, or at least I
thought I did. But she was the new girl in town, a stranger from another
country, and English was obviously a second language for her. She should have
been the one stumbling all over the place.

I assumed the
language barrier was the reason she had almost referred to herself as “This
body.” I was pretty sure that’s what she’d been about to say.

I escorted her to
the windows and if I’d been forced to critique my stride I’d have to say I
looked like an extra on The Walking Dead. I was definitely taking time finding
my cool gear. But eventually I began to calm down and by the time we’d waited
in line and it was our turn to order I was feeling pretty good about myself.
Why not? I’d just met Aja and already I was taking her to lunch. Not bad for a
few minutes’ work. I’d decided to pay for whatever she ordered to show what a
gentleman I was.

“Hey, Fred, how’s
the demo going?” Carlos asked from the other side of the glass. He was from
Mexico and worked three jobs to keep his family of six out of the rain. He was
also a genius when it came to playing the acoustic guitar and was helping me to
lay down tracks on a new three-song demo I was struggling to put together.

Yeah, I know, so I
wanted to be a rock star.

But tell the
truth. Who didn’t?

“It’s getting
there,” I said honestly, turning to Aja, who was staring at Carlos and not
bothering to look at the overhead menu. To his credit, Carlos acted like I
showed up every afternoon with a pretty girl on my arm. “Know what you want?” I
asked Aja.

She looked at me.
“It doesn’t matter.”

“Want a burger? A
sandwich? A salad?”

“I’ll have what
you’re having,” she said.

“I was going to
have a turkey sandwich with fries. And a Coke. That sound good?”

Aja nodded. “That’s
good.”

Carlos whipped up
our sandwiches in three minutes flat and when it was time to pay Aja pulled out
a wad of cash fat enough to buy a new car with. I hastily told her I had it
covered and she put the money back in her pocket.

Like the rest of
town, Elder High was kind of old and kind of poor, and no part of our campus
reflected those qualities more than our courtyard. It had no tables, no
umbrellas to block the sun, no drinking fountains. Only peeling wooden benches
that, if you were lucky, managed to catch the shade of a nearby tree.

Of course we had
trees, the whole state did, except for our infamous Badlands, which I,
personally, happened to love. I steered Aja toward a shady bench located
somewhere between where the jocks and the bad boys gathered. Like most schools,
Elder High had a variety of clearly defined social groups, none of which had
ever shown the slightest interest in attracting me as a member.

For a few minutes
I had Aja all to myself but I wasted them because all I did was eat and watch
her eat. It was during this time I noticed that she seemed to be following my
lead. When I unwrapped my turkey sandwich, she unwrapped hers. When I reached
for a fry or a sip of Coke, she did the same. She didn’t take nearly as big
bites as I did, though. If anything she chewed her food more thoroughly than
anyone I’d ever met.

But she only
mimicked me for a few minutes before quitting.

“Where are you
from?” I finally asked.

Aja pointed north.
“I live with my aunt Clara. In a white house by a large pond.”

I had meant where
she was from in Brazil but her answer interested me. “You don’t live in the old
Carter Mansion, do you?”

“Carter? Hmm. Yes,
the realtor told Aunty that was the name of the man who built the house. That’s
where this . . . that’s where I stay.”

“That’s one big
house. Is it just the two of you?”

“Bart lives with
us.”

“Who’s Bart?”

“Bart is Bart. He
takes care of things.”

“Is he a
housekeeper? A butler?”

“Yes. He’s been
with Aunty since before I met her.”

“How old were you
when you met your aunt?”

“I was small.” Aja
added casually, “I ran into her in the jungle.”

“The jungle?”

“The town where I
was born is surrounded by jungle.”

“And you just sort
of bumped into your aunt?”

“Yes.”

“Are you saying
she’s not your real aunt?”

Aja sipped her
drink. “She’s as real as you and me.”

I frowned. “This
was in Brazil?”

“Yes.”

I wanted to
continue my line of questioning but we got interrupted right then by Dale
Parish and Michael Garcia, two close friends of mine. Actually, two members of
a band I’d formed—Half Life. Dale played bass and Mike was our drummer. Dale
had only been playing a year but he was a natural and kept improving in leaps
and bounds every month. Mike—he’d been banging on anything that made noise
since he’d been a kid. No joke, he was like a force of nature onstage. We were
lucky to have him. I kept expecting to lose him to a louder and more successful
group.

Yet Mike swore
he’d never leave us. He had faith in my singing and songwriting abilities.

Unfortunately, he
also had a temper and was unpredictable. He missed plenty of practice sessions,
even a few paid gigs. We never knew which Mike was going to show up. If he was
loaded, on pot or beer, we knew the “Beast” was in the room and we’d better
watch out. But when he was sober he was the nicest guy. The swings could be
stressful.

Worse, Mike caused
Dale constant grief. Because Dale was in love with him and Mike didn’t have a
clue. On the surface it seemed impossible, since they’d grown up together. But
the truth was Mike didn’t even know Dale was gay. And Dale had begged me and
our keyboardist, Shelly Wilson, never to tell him.

Carlos had warned
me—and Carlos never lied—that Mike often hung out with a Hispanic gang in Balen
that controlled most of the area’s drug traffic. If anything was going to tear
our band apart, I knew it was going to be the tension between our drummer and
bass player.

“Who do we have
here?” Mike asked, straddling the bench beside Aja like it—or she—was a horse
he was anxious to ride. Dale nodded to me and smiled uneasily in Aja’s
direction but remained standing.

Physically, the
two couldn’t have been more unlike. Mike was dark-skinned, short and stocky,
and could bench-press more than Elder’s heartiest jocks. If a swinging chick
was looking for a bad boy who could rip holes in the sheets, Mike was it. While
Dale—well, I never met a more gentle soul in my life but there was a reason his
stage name was “The Corpse.” He was way beyond skinny and pale. Onstage, under
a harsh spotlight, he almost looked transparent. But the boy sure could play.
That was all that mattered to me.

I spoke up. “Aja,
these are two musician friends of mine, Mike and Dale. We’re in a band
together. Dale plays bass and Mike the drums. Guys, this is Aja. She’s from Brazil.
This is her first day at Elder High.”

Aja nodded in
their direction. “I enjoy music.”

“But do you like
musicians?” Mike asked, teasing. “That’s what I want to know. Besides, what the
hell are you doing with Fred? Did he tell you he’s such a wuss that he won’t go
onstage—and I’m talking practically every single gig we play—without me
swearing that I’ve got his back?”

“I’m afraid it’s
true,” I admitted. In the band, during shows, once Mike got going he created
such a ferocious rhythm that he drowned out any flat notes I hit on my guitar
or with my voice.

“Fred has more
talent in his little finger than the rest of us combined,” Dale added.

Mike slapped me on
the back. “Yeah, Fred’s the only one in this town that’s going places. Take my
word for it. So how did you two meet?”

I assumed Aja
would remain silent, given her habit, and that I’d have to answer. However, she
stared Mike right in the eye and said, “We met last Friday in the park. He was
watching me pick flowers and I smiled at him but he ignored me. But today he’s
a lot more friendly.”

Her comment caused
my heart to skip.

She’d smiled at
me?

Mike was suddenly
curious about her accent. “¿Hablan español en el lugar de Brasil de donde
vienes?” he asked.

“No muchos. Pero
algunos,” Aja said.

“¿Pero creciste
hablando portugués?” Mike asked.

“Sim,” Aja said.

“What the hell are
they saying?” I asked Dale. He’d taken four years of Spanish at school but his
real knowledge of the language had come from hanging around Mike’s family. Dale
leaned over and whispered in my ear.

“Mike asked if
they spoke Spanish in her part of Brazil. Aja said, ‘Not many, but some.’ Then
Mike asked, ‘But you grew up speaking Portuguese?’ And Aja said, ‘Yes.’ ”

“Why the sudden
interest in Aja’s background?” I said. But Mike ignored me and continued to
speak to Aja, who appeared to fascinate him.

“Your accent—you
remind me of my grandmother,” Mike said. “She could speak half a dozen
languages. She sounded like she was from everywhere, and nowhere, if you know
what I mean. Sort of like you.”

Aja lowered her
head. “Ninguém do nada.”

“What was that?” I
asked quickly.

Apparently she’d
answered in Portuguese, which neither Mike nor Dale understood. When I asked
Aja what she’d said, all she did was shake her head like it didn’t matter.

Dale flashed Mike
a sign that it was time to split and Mike, knowing my bad luck with girls, bid
us a quick farewell. When they were gone Aja and I returned to eating our
sandwiches and fries. A long silence settled between us but to my surprise it
wasn’t uncomfortable. I suspected Aja had spent most of her life alone and
wasn’t bothered by quiet.

“I apologize for
Mike,” I said. “He can be a handful when you first meet him.”

“He has a fiery
spirit.”

“I suppose that’s
where all the smoke comes from.”

Aja turned her
big, brown eyes on me. “They look up to you. Are you that good?”

I assumed she was
asking about my musical abilities and shrugged. “As far as South Dakota is
concerned, I could be the next Mozart. But if I performed at a club in Los
Angeles or New York or Seattle I’d be laughed off the stage.” I took a gulp of
Coke. “Trying to make a living as a singer/songwriter is probably the most
irrational ambition a guy can have. One in a million—no, one in ten
million—ends up making money at it.”

“But it’s what you
want to do,” she said.

“Unfortunately.”

“Then you’ll do
it.”

I chuckled. “You
haven’t even seen us play.”

The remark was far
from subtle. I was hoping she’d bite and say she’d like to come to a show.
Also, it wasn’t by chance that I’d switched from talking about me to talking
about the band. If she didn’t bite, then she was rejecting Half Life, not me.
So went my crazy logic. The truth was I’d brought up being a musician to
impress her. It was shameless, I know, but I figured I had to play what cards I
held.

“Is it fun for
you?” she asked.

“Being onstage?
Sometimes—when I forget what I’m doing and that people are watching me. Then I
love it. But most of the time I’m way too self-conscious and can’t wait until
the gig is over. Seriously.”

Aja continued to
stare at me and because she didn’t blink often, it was a bit disconcerting.
“Play for me sometime,” she said.

There. I’d
practically begged her to ask but now that she had I wished I’d kept my mouth
shut. I shook my head. “I’m not a solo artist. Better to see me in the band.”

She nodded but I
didn’t think she believed me.

“How about you?” I
asked. “What’s your favorite hobby?”

She hesitated. “I
don’t have any hobbies. I just . . . enjoy things.”

“What sort of
things?”

“Bart told me to
watch out for questions like that. He said they’d get me into trouble.”

Her response
caught me off guard. “Huh?”

“I told you about
Bart.”

“I know, I heard
you. But he actually told you how to behave while you were at school today?”

Aja nodded. “He
spent the weekend trying to teach me what to say and what not to say.”

“Isn’t that a
little weird?”

If my question
bothered her, she showed no sign. “Bart said he had to teach me so I wouldn’t
appear weird to the rest of you.” As if to reassure me, she reached out and
touched my arm. “He was trying to help.”

The instant she
touched me, I felt something odd, a lapse of sorts, where I had trouble
focusing. The scene around us, the guys and girls walking back and forth across
the courtyard, they didn’t stop but they did seem to slow down. I shook my head
to clear it and the sensation eased up, somewhat. I noticed Aja had taken back
her hand. I had to struggle to get out my next remark.

“I should meet
this guy. Maybe he can help me with my weirdness.”

Aja suddenly
stood, leaving what was left of her food behind on the bench. She wasn’t tall
but at that moment she could have been standing on a chair and looking down at
me. I worried that my peculiar sensation had not passed, after all. Again, I
had to remind myself that she was new to the school, the stranger in a strange
land, but right then I was certain I had it all wrong, that she was more at
home in Elder than I could ever hope to be.

“I’m glad we got
to talk, Fred. I hope I see you again soon.”

With that she
turned and walked away.

About
the Author:

Christopher Pike is a bestselling
author of young adult novels. The Thirst series, The Secret of Ka, and the
Remember Me and Alosha trilogies are some of his favorite titles. He is also the
author of several adult novels, including Sati and The Season of Passage.

Thirst and Alosha are slated to be
released as feature films. Pike currently lives in Santa Barbara, where it is
rumored he never leaves his house.

Marsha A. Moore is a writer of fantasy romance. The magic of art and nature spark life into her writing. Read her COON HOLLOW TALES of paranormal romance and her ENCHANTED BOOKSTORE LEGENDS
for adventurous epic fantasy romance. For a FREE ebook download, read her historic fantasy, LE CIRQUE DE MAGIE, available at Amazonand Smashwords.